Seeing autism through the eyes of her peers

It was a sweet gesture on the part of Matilda’s tee-ball teammate last night, a kid who was sensitive enough to recognize that Matilda faced some challenges on the tee-ball field that other players did not.

But it was hard as her coach/mom watching her peers “go easy” on her out there, realizing that they instantly assessed the disabilities I was just months ago struggling to even see in my daughter.

I’d finally put Matilda in an active position — first base — and when one of the kids caught the ball, instead of throwing it to first like we teach them to, he’d hand deliver the ball to her glove. I told him he could throw it, but he was reluctant, and Matilda, just trying to keep track of what to do next, didn’t seem to mind.

It threw me back into a place I was after her diagnosis, struggling to accept that her childhood may not look like her twin brother’s will. It makes me angry with myself. I wish I could be at peace with understanding that different doesn’t mean less, could stop feeling that she had been robbed of something important.

I love her with everything I have. She loves to cuddle and sing and has the the world’s best giggle. She’s creative in the stories she goes around the house muttering to herself. She’s skilled drawing all those sidewalk chalk pictures — an identical line of people or ice cream cones or balloons — she uses to decorate the driveway. She loves her brother fiercely, running to the door if they’ve been apart shouting “Andrew! Andrew!”

I like the way she calls herself “cowgirl.” And how she loves to swing on her swingset high and fast. And so I don’t know why I get caught up in mourning the loss of “typical Matilda” the one who never was when I’m blessed enough to have this smart, beautiful version in my life every day.